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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Puppy Love part 2 of 2 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PUPPY LOVE
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Two
Beyond the smells of chickens and pigs, beyond the bales of hay
and the fields of grain, lay the farmhouse. It was quaint,
old-fashioned looking, with a weathervane on top, a rooster with a sharp
beak and each of the wind directions marked out with big capital
letters. An Argentinean flag fluttered out front, patriotic, in back a
scarecrow loomed amidst fast-growing corn. Clouds scudded overhead.
The sun streamed down its fertile rays amidst a refreshing breeze.
Inside the house was elegant. We were douched, bathed in a big
tub, like cattle, and tucked into a pair of beds in the guest bedroom.
We slept deeply, despite our fears, for the men had exercised us much
that day. In the morning we were roused, our night’s chamber pot was
emptied. Taken into the hall, we were sniffed enquiringly in our nudity
by a big fluffy dog. I tried to push him away but his nose prodded
vigorously at my pussy. I screeched as his big, wet floppy tongue
emerged to lap at my sex.
Ms. Tuppence laughed. She had overseen us since our arrival.
She and her farm boys, who had bathed us the night before, themselves
nude, their cocks stiff beyond belief. The boys were made to handle us
in gentlemanly fashion, a relief after the too vigorous fucking the big,
brutal-minded Russians had given us. When we’d stepped from the tub
she’d let them dry us and then permitted them to masturbate in front of
us. We’d watched, amazed, horrified. They were all about 13, randy as
hell. This morning they were all amazingly hard again, still as nude.
When the dog had sniffed us out he made for the boys, but Ms. Tuppence
stopped him.
“Down, Samson,” she ordered. “You are a boy dog. Do not
become a fag on me.” I suspected she must have to give Samson the same
speech every day, for he was quite feisty. “It is nice that you girls
were able to arrive during my little summer camp that I hold each year,”
Ms. Tuppence smiled at us, wickedly, not really seeing us as people,
rather as if she were addressing cats, or trembling kittens. Perhaps
the boys were dogs and we ourselves kittens, with Samson being more
human, in her mind at least, than we ourselves were. “Yes, I do not
think I could have managed you without the boys. My armed guards would
be such an imposition, here in the house. It is much nicer to control
you with randy lads like these, who are so cute in their obedience, so
crazy and cute. Ah, I’ve a mind to see you fucked by them. I should
not wish my husband to know of it, though. He would be jealous. Kneel
down, cunts, each of you. That is all you are to me. We have five of
you, and seven boys. Kneel down and present your asses. I’ll have you
fucked first thing this morning, before I take you off the pill. Have
at them, boys. There is no need to masturbate this morning!”
Glancing sideways at each other, we delicately dropped to our
knees as the boys, dancing like Indians, crowed and hooted and
hollared. Tara brushed back her hair, tried to take what was coming
with as much grace as she could maintain.
“Get your face right down on the floor,” Ms. Tuppence ordered
Tara. She put her booted foot right upon Tara’s neck. It was an
ankle-high boot, most ladylike, but Ms. Tuppence used it viciously,
pressing down on Tara’s neck until the young woman was fully upon the
floor, her cheek hard-pressed to the carpet, her ass lifted high by her
sudden descent. Her knees bumped against the carpet as her squat turned
into a full-fledged presentation of her bottom.
“Yahoo!” three boys cried, fighting amongst themselves to be
the first to get at her. One, pressing harder than the rest, managed to
push himself forward and shove them away. He knelt quickly and
introduced his stemming cock right into Tara’s sweetly offered cunt.
“Mmmm,” he announced, licking his lips as he felt himself, small as he
was, slip quickly inside. He had a nice cock, big for a 13-year-old,
but it was less in size than the manly cocks she’d been trained to
accept. He got inside her with little difficulty and pumped her with
abandon. She reached down a hand to herself and massaged her own sex in
anticipation of his quick release. He came, crowed like a rooster, then
stood. Quietly Tara kept her own counsel, rubbing herself for a still
unattained orgasm. The next boy mounted her, even as the rest of us
became victims ourselves. Soon they had all shot, leaving us without
orgasms, all except Rachel, who seemed almost as youthfully excited as
the boys themselves. They sensed a commonality with her, liked her for
it, but were even more drawn to those of us who seemed older, more
refined, especially Tara. Perhaps her raven hair, her seductive eyes,
reminded them of their mothers. Certainly the mothers who had nursed
them were little older than Tara when they’d given birth. Samson danced
around, hoping for a shot himself, quite frisky, but Ms. Tuppence
restrained him, holding him by his collar while she watched us fucked.
When we’d stood up again she let him loose. He ran to Tara, raised
himself, and rubbed himself briskly against her thigh. Tara shrieked,
but Ms. Tuppence let him massage himself until he came. He shot white
sperm all the way up to her hips. The boys laughed, we stood in shocked
silence, except Rachel, who couldn’t help giggling along with the boys.
Then were were marched off to the big bath tub, where the boys were
allowed much greater liberties in bathing us than they’d been given the
night before.
“Hurry, the cows need milking,” Ms. Tuppence interrupted when
the boys had enjoyed our bodies quite freely and fully, making us shout,
tormenting us by poking us wherever they could, though all quite
childishly, they were as much in awe of us as anything, even as they
strove to slather their hands and mouths all over us. She did not let
them pull our hair, or pinch us, yet poking in our anal holes with
questing fingers, and between our furrowed lips, was not discouraged, so
long as it was done inquiringly, that we might be preserved intact for
the real male in our world, her as yet unseen husband.
Having milked the boys, we were dried and given sandals and two
pails each, made of metal, for receiving the essence of the cows. We
walked nakedly from the farmhouse. She did not permit us any clothes.
The grass lay green under our feet. It was wet with the morning’s dew.
In the east the sun was just rising over the treetops. We were late to
our milking chores, Ms. Tuppence bade us to hurry. She ushered us
briskly along, elegantly dressed in a full-bodice gown and gloves, with
a parasol to protect her from the soon-to-be sweltering sun. In her
hand she clasped a wickedly thin riding crop. She whisked it behind us,
breathtakingly close to our fannies. We walked in disorderly fashion,
in neither a column or line, five abreast, one sometimes pushing ahead,
another falling behind. In the distance workmen arrived, clambering off
a truck that drove up amidst a cloud of dust. They were heavy-set men,
ignorant Indians or old-time field hands, men who had traded whatever
life they had for a lifetime of backbreaking labor amidst the eternal
crops. They would work, I guessed, glancing at them, until they were
old and grey, stooped over from all their endless efforts, forever
harvesting, only to be wakened anew by a fresh crop of fast-growing seed
in the spring, until at last the ever-generative seeds won out and the
men, useless, wound up as old beggars on the city streets of Buenos
Aires. I pitied them, even as they looked at our fine young bodies, our
tempting white flesh glowing in the rising sun, fresh from our bath,
worried at the wet dew which stuck ickily to our feet. With some of the
men were women, clambering down from the truck. It was a dump truck, as
if the humans who rode in it were nothing more than refuse. Ashes to
ashes, and in the meantime human garbage. I did not pity the women.
They glared at us, bundled-up like the men in rags against the hot rays
of the sun. Jealousy and envy coursed through them, I could see, even
from this distance. Then some of them laughed, ridiculing our
nakedness. I flushed deeply. I was glad they were far away and could
not see my embarrassment. Yet, somehow, I’m sure they knew how we felt,
seeing them now as the whooped and hollared, getting the men to laugh
with them. We trundled with our buckets, wondering...did they know
something we didn’t? We were captives, they at least might steal away
during the day, unnoticed, never to return. But, glancing here and
there, I saw armed guards, coolly watching, sunglasses on, guarding the
illegal poppy crop that the workers had come to tend and harvest. And
intermingled with the poppies I saw other drug crops, marijuana, and
others still, all laid out neatly, with some maize and potatoes
interspersed, perhaps for food, perhaps to give the crops an accidental
appearance, as if the poppies had sprung up by the grace of God only,
not by any plan. Perhaps the government was cracking down and they were
trying to sow a more careful seed, intermingling, creating the
appearance of compliance, even as Mother Earth gave up yet more of her
natural, euphoria-producing bounty. Some say civilization began with
the growing of crops for beer, well, it continued here, and there were
many in the world, I was sure, who would claim that the euphoria of the
drug crops mattered more to them than the fullness in the belly of the
humble potatoes and corn.
Our titties wiggled freely as we walked. We were all blessed,
jiggling in our nudity we entered into the barn. Ms. Tuppence showed us
the cows. They looked at us with wide, dumb eyes. Their moos greeted
our ears. I smelled fresh hay, as if someone had been here just before
us, to prepare the barn.
“Turn one of your buckets upside down and sit right down on
it,” Miss Tuppence ordered. With our hair loose, pushing it back from
our faces to get it out of the way, we sat down on our buckets. It was
uncomfortable, I found, sitting with my bare ass right on the hard, cold
bucket. Mine wiggled a bit beneath me until I adjusted it. I moved it
off a bump on the ground so that it would sit properly. I sat frankly
with my legs wide. Ms. Tuppence gave each of us clear disposable gloves
so we would not have to touch the cow’s udders directly. The gloves
were thin, though. We would feel every movement of the cow’s
milk-giving teats. I felt my own breasts jiggle as I reached forward
and took hold of my assigned udder. The big beastly cow shifted as it
felt my hands take hold, as if urging me to empty it. Her penis shaped
teats hung down with tender fullness. The cow swished her tail,
brushing away something, a fly perhaps, or maybe brushing back Ms.
Tuppence herself, lest she swipe at its hind end with her crop.
“My cow has a bow on it!” I heard Rachel announce happily.
“Get milking, dear,” Ms. Tuppence answered.
“Well, mine has a bell,” I replied, answering her as I began
squeezing the teats. As if to make me happy, my cow moved her neck,
causing her bell to ring.
We worked. I felt a strange fulfillment, doing this labor
amidst the fresh-smelling hay, naked as the cows themselves, my own
nipples stiff as I worked the fulsome teats. They felt sensuous as I
tugged on them, over and over, working on them as I might a host of wet
male penises, each giving forth its white juice in abundance. Never
before had I felt such a special bond with my own breasts, heavy and
perfect, sucked but never milk-giving. I felt a longing to be a mother
well up within me. I did not care who the father was, I just wanted to
serve, to nourish, to cherish. Lightly I kissed the side of my cow, my
fellow sister, giving her milk so freely and happily and effortlessly to
me. I sensed the other girls around me felt a similar bond with their
beasts. At last, my pail underneath the udder full, I lifted my seat up
off my upturned bucket and stripped off my gloves.
“Oooh, that made my butt sore,” I remarked. I cast my gloves
onto the ground and rubbed my fanny with my hands.
“Did I say you could rise?” Ms. Tuppence asked. I sat down at
once.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” I replied. My voice quavered. She frightened
me. My face was sheepish. I had, believe it or not, forgotten all
about her, about my captivity, so absorbed had I become in the milking.
“Let’s not be all day about it, girls!” Ms. Tuppence called
out. Instead of striking me, she passed by, just letting her crop
tremble a bit, in her hand, keeping it limber. I wondered then at
myself, at her. Were we really being enslaved, punished, or were we
being treated to some special experience? Perhaps that was why we had
not fought more, though how we could I did not know, given the men who’d
taken us, and who now guarded us, in the distance, their weapons at the
ready, and their cocks too, no doubt, if we acted up and fell from grace
with Ms. Tuppence and her sprightly crop. Yet I felt, somehow, as if
perhaps I’d earned this moment in the barn. I’d been to the Andes, and
to London and its environs, and on into the jungles of Mexico, seeking
what I knew not, and finding danger, passion sometimes, but mostly an
otherworldly kind of loss of control of my physical self, only to
repossess myself at the last minute, before all was lost. Now, again, I
had brought myself into some special zone, where few entered. Naked,
shivering slightly in the coolness of the barn, the sun hot already in
the fields beyond. Made to work, yet in a freshened barn, lined with
sweet hay, with freshly scrubbed cows waiting to be milked. I guessed
not every day was this barn so clean, so well prepared. They had done
it for us, because we were special. And why were we special? Not
because of our minds, tho we might speak with special eloquence, or
tenderness, or warmth, or passion. No, it was because, of all the
females in the world, we were the best, the most perfect. And, most
importantly, we were young. We were the girls of this season, though I
found it hard to believe there would ever be any other seasons when I
was not perfect and special and just as unique as I now was. Yet, there
were older women in the world, like Ms. Tuppence, who had been girls
once, with free-flowing hair, long and fine and tumbling down over their
swan-like necks and slim, tightly-fleshed backs, swishing across their
ribs and spine, touching the outcurving of their ass, their tailbone.
Ms. Tuppence rousted us from our bucket-seats and made us each pick up
our full pail, leaving our upturned buckets on the floor behind, perhaps
to be reclaimed by whomever had freshened the barn for us before our
arrival.
“Come, girls! Back to the house!” Ms. Tuppence ordered. With
sloshing pails we proceeded forward. I felt milk splash my thighs as I
gripped my heavy, full bucket with both my small hands. My mane of hair
swayed as I carried my swaying bucket. My ass moved freely, jiggling in
time with my efforts. My titties were squeezed between my close-pressed
arms, offering my teats like twin little towers, Hershey’s kisses made
of pink flesh, capping my sumptuous breasts.
Exiting the barn, we found the field hands loitering nearby.
Perhaps they had been invited to witness us at closer range. Our faces
reddened at once. With lowered eyes, feeling ridiculous, we waddled
with our heavy pails toward the farmhouse. They watched our wiggly
bodies, noted with amused, heavy-lidded eyes each opening of our bottom
cracks, our silken bottoms working in time with our legs as we carried
in the milk.
“Don’t spill it!” Ms. Tuppence cautioned us. “The field hands
want every drop of it. Nourishment is scarce in these parts. They have
hungry children who need it. Walk carefully, don’t trip! You will
drink pasteurized milk at breakfast, but these field hands need this raw
milk right away, for their many children. If even one of you drops your
pail I will turn you over to them for punishment. It’s only fair you
should get the milk for their children, since you will eat sausages and
eggs and bread that they baked, or butchered, or collected from the
henhouse. We all share the work here!” Fixing my lips I carried my
bucket more deliberately. It seemed only fair. We had milked in a kind
of erotic, selfish introspection, yet the work of the field hands was
only hard, forced, peasant labor. They worked sunup to sundown, and
there was no passion in it, only sweat and blood, toil and grime.
Sleek-limbed, my hair lustrous in the morning sun, feeling its rays upon
my body, I carried my bucket with a sense of duty. I was serving. I
was contributing. A child would drink this milk this very morning,
still warm from the cow’s udder. It would feed upon milk that I had
provided, albeit with my squeezing hands, instead of my breasts which
squished between my close-pressed arms.
We advanced with our milk pails to a big metal drum beside the
farm house. It looked like it might be for catching rain, but Ms.
Tuppence told us to dump our milk into the drum. It might have held oil
once, now it was old, bright from long years of use and reuse, not rusty
though, as if it had been well cared for, despite its long years of
service. I bit my lip when my turn came and hefted up my pail. I
poured the sweet, fresh milk into the drum.
“Toss your bucket over there. It will be seen to,” Ms.
Tuppence ordered me. I cast my pail beside the house, with the other
buckets that my farmmates had emptied. We were special, I realized.
Our chores were to delight us, Ms. Tuppence too perhaps, and others
besides, if they saw us. Together, swinging our bottoms freely, feeling
unique, tossing our heads, we re-entered the farmhouse.
“Wash up at the sink,” Ms. Tuppence ordered. “No playing, and
be quiet. Take off your sandals and wipe your feet with a rag. There
are some clean ones piled there, beside the sink.” We crossed from the
entrance of the farmhouse into the kitchen, passing the parlor. I saw
men sitting in there, discussing business, wearing suits. I smelled the
smoke of fine cigars and felt their eyes upon me as I went to the
kitchen. With a newfound sense of uncertainty we washed at the sink.
Men were here, not guards, not little boys, not field hands, but real
men from the city, men intended for us.
When we’d freshened up at the sink Ms. Tuppence ushered us into
the dining room for breakfast. Two maids, dressed neatly in white,
curtsied to us as we entered the dining room, though we were stark naked
and they were primly attired. They were middle-aged women, fat field
hand women brought inside for servant-work.
“Good morning, fine ladies,” they said in broken English, with
heavy-Spanish accents. The chairs around the table were upright, made
of polished wood. I saw that each chair had a small white pillow,
fringed with a ruffle, upon it.
“You’ll appreciate those pillows at future meals,” Ms. Tuppence
smiled, a gleam in her eyes. I saw that underneath each pillow was a
velvet cushion. I might have sat right upon it this morning, but the
pillows were already there, lest we had needed discipline in the barn,
or coming back with the milk in the heavy pails.
I scooted out my chair and made to sit. A man, filing in with
the other men behind us, appeared at my back.
“Allow me,” he offered. I looked up at him, surprised, feeling
awkward in my nudity as he stood well-clothed, finely-attired, behind
me. He waited for my nod of permission. At last I gave it. With an
ass lurching push he shoved my chair forward, so that my torso came
against the table. “Sorry,” he coughed. I glanced at him again, saw he
was very large in his trousers, where his legs met.
“It’s alright,” I answered, softly. He saw my eyes gazing in
curious surprise at his crotch.
“I find you...a pleasure,” he answered, uncertain of his
words.
“These men have all paid for the opportunity to dine with
well-cultivated young ladies,” Ms. Tuppence said, addressing us. “Let’s
be on our best behavior and show them what perfect manners we have.”
The men sat down, on either side of each of us. I saw a very large man
beside Ms. Tuppence, still standing, gazing at us with a sense of
ownership.
“This is my husband, Frederick,” Ms. Tuppence said, introducing
her husband. I gulped, nodded politely as his eyes slowly regarded us.
I considered her lucky, I must admit, to have such a husband, for he was
physically imposing, with big arms, a big chest, almost bursting from
his Armani suit that he wore. He had piercing eyes and dark hair. His
face was deeply tanned, as if he’d worked in the fields for years,
building his farm, until finally he could afford all that he had now,
including us. I trembled a little as he gazed at me, feeling the
nakedness of my bottom upon the ruffled pillow. I sensed he expected
the best from us, with no disobedience. Had I found my master? Did I
want a master? For a moment my prior master flashed before my minds,
tall and slim but powerfully built in his slimness, like a Vampire.
Well, he had lost his grip on me now. I was falling for this new man.
He looked severe, though, and that worried me.
“Good morning girls,” he said. “You are my guests.” His voice
spoke of possession, making me feel like something he owned, like one of
his cows. Would he give me a ribbon to wear round my neck, or a bell?
“I’m hungry!” Rachel proclaimed.
“Are you the youngest?” our new master asked, turning his gaze
to her. She shrank from the harshness of his eyes.
“No, sir. She is,” Rachel answered. She pointed to me.
I wanted to slap Rachel for making me the special target of his
glare. His eyes turned to me. They did not look at my face, but at my
breasts.
“Sit up straight,” Ms. Tuppence called to me. With flinching
mouth, feeling my spine tremble, I sat up straight and tall, though I
wanted to duck under the table and run back to the barn. The cows would
protect me. I stuck out my tits, as if they were udders, pulling my
shoulders back.
“She is no longer on the pill?” master asked Ms. Tuppence, as I
stared down at my plate, empty and waiting, conscious of the nude
breasts displayed all around me at table, and the men placed amidst us,
admiring us.
“No, not as of this morning,” Ms. Tuppence answered. “A few
days perhaps, at most, and she will be fully fertile, although she might
conceive even this morning, if you wish to try.”
“I will,” he said. “There is not much time. I must leave
soon.”
“Again?” Ms. Tuppence asked. She sat down at the front of the
table, next to her husband, who seated himself at the head of it,
watching us all the while.
“Politics,” her husband answered.
“Always there is something,” Ms. Tuppence sighed.
“Always there is America,” he answered. “Great women, but a
pain in the ass otherwise. These girls, they are all from America?”
“Two of them,” Ms. Tuppence answered. “I think. Girls, tell
us where each of you is from. And your names too, please, that we may
know you better.”
We all looked at each other, awkward and blushing. I sensed
the males on either side of me, wanting to touch me, to take me. The
maids began serving us our meal, moving around us as quietly and
stealthily as cats. Their crisp white uniforms rustled as they began
pouring juice, serving bread, the aroma wafting up, making my mouth
water.
“I’m Tara,” our raven-haired former hostess began.
“Which of you has been pierced?” our master asked Tara.
Tara lowered her eyes, blushed. “Me,” she replied.
“I let her take off her adornment,” Ms. Tuppence answered.
“There is just a little ring there right now, barely visible, to keep
the hole open. It rubs her clitty sometimes. Does it not, Tara?”
“Yes,” Tara answered, her voice soft. I looked at her. She
had looked a bit more passionate than the rest of us this morning. Now
I knew why. I wondered what it must feel like, to be constantly
caressed, right where it felt so special. For a second I wanted a ring
of my own, on my clitoral hood, but I dreaded the pain.
“It is an excellent symbol of ownership,” Ms. Tuppence
explained. “The chain, I mean, you will like seeing it on her.”
He harumphed, opened his napkin. He tucked it into his shirt
collar, in front, under his chin.
“It is the sign of another man,” he said diffidently. “You
should have brought me only unblemished girls, ones I could mark
myself.”
“All girls except the littlest ones bear the mark of another
man, dear,” Ms. Tuppence answered quietly. The maids served us eggs,
once over, trembling with egg yolk which threatened to break and run
from them at the slightest touch. “The hymen, you know. Did you expect
me to bring you 12-year-olds?”
“No, I must have bosoms and asses on my females, and they must
be capable of giving birth,” he answered. He looked at her. “When did
you lose yours?”
“At twelve, dear,” she replied, with a little smile,
remembering briefly some long-lost lover.
“Perhaps that is the reason you have not borne ME any young,”
he answered.
“I have not borne anyone any ‘young,’” Ms. Tuppence said, taken
aback.
“We will begin after breakfast,” master said, and cut into his
egg. Immediately the yolk flooded his plate. “I must have a heir.”
We ate a little while in silence, then, the men observing us,
we ourselves self-conscious, though a little proud too, like show ponies
at a fair. We were stunningly beautiful, I knew, me and my friends, all
of us with perfect nails, soft flowing hair, and faces men went to war
and died for, not to mention our bodies. I felt a bit queasy from my
surroundings, but the milking had done much to give me an appetite, and
my desire for food won out over my desire to keep my tummy empty so I
could flee.
“You will enjoy hosting parties, putting on your master’s long
chain before the guests arrive, greeting each one in turn, showing them
your master’s adornment,” Ms. Tuppence observed at last, turning to
Tara. She wished to fill our silence with pleasant conversation. “Your
tinkling little bell at the end of your chain will always announce you
to be the hostess, as you walk through the assembled guests. It is a
wise use of the pussy.”
“Yes,” Tara answered shyly. She must have felt most irregular
talking about her pussy in front of all these strange men.
“Did it hurt?” Rachel asked. She forked a piece of egg-soaked
bread into her mouth.
“Of course,” Tara answered. “You should know. You helped hold
my legs open.”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t want one,” Rachel informed master, her
cheeks bloated with her food.
“Rachel, dear, your body contains b-endorphins, do you know
what they are?” Ms. Tuppence asked the girl. Rachel, munching with
smacking lips, shook her head ‘no.’
“When you feel pain, b-endorphins are released,” Ms. Tuppence
answered. “You can feel a sense of euphoria from that.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t hurt, I’ll take the
endorf-whatevers then,” Rachel replied. “But you can keep the bees. I
don’t like bees. They sting!” A mild murmur of amusement passed among
the guests. I shook my head. Rachel reminded me of Mandy, all young
and innocent and bold and carefree, sure she owned the world, and was
the center of attention in it.
“Their names, I was wondering...” a man piped up.
“It is nothing,” master answered. “They are walking wombs,
that is all. Beautiful wombs, I’ll grant, as I expected them to be.
But I care nothing for their names. This one is Tara, and has been
owned by another man, who had her pierced. That one is Rachel, who is
as foolish and childish as they come, yet she has been fucked by other
men already, and has no hymen to offer me.”
“You sound upset, dear,” Ms. Tuppence answered. She put a hand
lightly on his wrist. He brushed it away.
“I should go into the jungle, perhaps, and mate with the Indian
girls,” he snorted. “Perhaps they have virgins there.”
“All girls are born virgins, dear, it’s just that...”
“They can’t keep their panties on, and their parents pretend to
care, to ‘protect’ them, but look the other way when their boyfriend
comes calling,” master said. “It is no matter. I will fuck these girls
and we will see what comes of it.”
I lifted my eyes from my plate, glanced at him. I think we all
did. I myself felt sorry for him. So handsome, yet somehow so
disappointed with the world. Perhaps his expectations were too high.
We finished breakfast. We ate strawberries for dessert, to
make our breath sweet. Our chairs were scooted back by the men and we
rose, princess-like, though we were naked as jaybirds and my bladder
longed to pee.
“Come, girls,” Ms. Tuppence beckoned us. “I want each of you
to pee into this little cup. There’s one for each of you.” She handed
out plastic containers to us, as we stood around the breakfast table.
The maids began clearing away the plates and glasses. “Do it right
here. Just hold the cup beneath you, bend your legs a little, and open
your cuntlips. I’ll test the pee to see that you’re not pregnant, so
master and I can be sure any child you bear will be his.”
“If I have a baby, I want it to be MINE!” Rachel said.
“Shhh,” Anna said, bumping her. She glanced at Ms. Tuppence’s
riding crop, letting Rachel’s eyes follow her gaze. Rachel, who herself
had served as a slave under our previous master, got the message.
Obedience was required. She accepted her cup and, like the rest of us,
dutifully peed into it. I had trouble stopping my flow, but I managed.
I had much left to give.
Mistress collected our glasses, giving each of us a kleenex to
wipe with. I wiped myself, then darted forward and dropped my kleenex
on my plate. The maids would collect it. I stood fidgeting. How
strange it had been to pee so candidly, with the maids working around
us, the men standing amongst us. In a girl’s locker room one might have
gone ahead and just peed, to get it over with. But here, it had been so
unusual, peeing in this wood-paneled room. There were paintings on the
walls, perhaps by Old Masters, or unknown artists of equal skill. They
portrayed generations past, two men, a woman, master’s ancestors
perhaps, frigid and cold, glaring out from the walls, with a layer of
dust lightly covering them, for someone had forgotten to dust their
canvas surfaces, perhaps out of respect for them, or indifference.
There was no glass covering the paintings. They hung in ornate
gold-gilt frames. A plant stood in one corner, leafy and green, with
long-stemmed stalks. A bouquet of flowers on the table seemed the
perfect compliment to it, all buds and flourishing color, female
perhaps, to the plant’s stern masculine growth. The plant in the corner
reminded me of master; cold, withdrawn, yet large in its corner,
imposing, proud of itself. Well, I was proud of myself too, though I
was much frailer, with my pink pussy lips wedged neatly between my
thighs, fringed with hair, and my pink colored toenails and
fingernails. I looked down at myself, over the offered fruit of my
breasts, with their tender teats. I ran my hand across my tummy. It
was smooth, flat, despite my big meal. It felt soft. I pressed my
fingers into it. Would master make me bulge there? I wondered what
kind of child such a big man would sire. A giant, perhaps. Still, I
wished I’d been given my pill. I should choose when I gave birth, not
him, shouldn’t I? I looked up at him with meek eyes. He was watching
me, seeing me stroke my belly.
“I enjoyed watching you pee,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I felt
myself blush. “I-I still have to go some more.”
“Me too!” Rachel said, a note of urgency in her voice.
“I’m glad that chain’s out of my way,” Tara said. We were
feeling free again, open. “And I do have to pee, sir, if you don’t
mind.” She brushed her hair back with a flip of her hand, a toss of her
head. She was cultured, privileged. The only agonies she’d ever known
were those inflicted for the sake of pleasure. Her teeth flashed in a
white, candid smile.
“I see why your master pierced you,” Ms. Tuppence’s husband
said to her. “You must host a party for me sometime. I shall take you
with me, to Paris. You will greet the guests, and show each one your
pussy as she or he comes in.”
“I would be honored,” Tara answered simply. She looked down at
herself, bent her legs, opened herself, tugged lightly on the little
ring that adorned her most private place. “It is special, though it
hurt like the dickens getting it in,” she admitted.
“I should have loved to have seen it,” master answered.
“Jasmine is still to get one, according to our old master’s
orders,” Tara offered, casting a quick glance at Jasmine, who flinched
and cupped her hand to her nest.
“Take away your hand,” master ordered Jasmine. “Your pussy is
as pretty as hers. You deserve the same. And I do too, for I wish to
watch it put in.” Jasmine took away her hand, mumbled something,
inaudible, a protest probably. She looked down at her toes, hefted her
breasts in her palms self-consciously.
With dainty fingers, Ms. Tuppence dipped paper in each of our
urine cups to test our pee. She did it right on the dinner table,
laying each strip of paper out in a neat row, side-by-side, to see the
results.
“One, two, three, four, five fertile females,” she announced to
her husband. “None pregnant.”
“Good, let us proceed,” he said simply. “Have them pee in the
bathroom on their way to the delivery room.”
Feeling quite powerless, we let Ms. Tuppence usher us down the
hall and into a well-appointed bathroom. Each of us sat on the toilet
and peed, while master’s fine-suited friends gathered round and watched
us. Then we were permitted to check our make up in a mirror, and to
brush out our hair, which the wind had tousled on our trip to the barn.
Feeling odd, and not a bit frightened, I let myself be led from the
bathroom into an adjoining room, where five wooden trestles awaited us.
Each was topped by a leather pad, and I saw that a table sat beside each
trestle, busy with vials of ointment and salve, and with rubbers.
Boldly Tara walked up to one of the trestles and ran her fingers lightly
over its leather top.
“Is this for me?” she asked coyly. “How unlike a marriage bed,
to be bent over like some animal and fucked from behind.”
“It must not be too pleasant, dear,” Ms. Tuppence answered.
“You are competing with me, after all.” She touched Tara’s elbow.
“Now?” Tara asked. She turned her her face to Ms. Tuppence.
Their eyes seemed to clash a moment.
“You are a beautiful animal,” Ms. Tuppence answered. “Offer
your cunt to your master.”
“Oh, this is so silly!” Tara answered. “I shall simply take
RU486 afterwards.” She bent, an impelling push from Ms. Tuppence at her
back, showing us her hiney and finally bending so low that her hair
brushed the floor.
“Legs apart,” Ms. Tuppence called out. She wedged her palms
between Tara’s close-pressed legs and urged them apart, showing us her
fig. Rachel giggled.
Master unzipped himself. His penis popped out. We gasped, all
of us, it was so big. Veins ran along its shaft, pulsing, the head was
a proud plum of flesh, wriggling with his unspent need as he strode up
to Tara. Quickly Ms. Tuppence squirted him with oil. It was warm, from
a special little heater placed just for the purpose upon the table.
Master grimaced at the pleasure of it, all wet and oily as it laced over
his penis. Then he opened up Tara in back, wedging her ass cheeks apart
with his hands so he could fully expose her cunny. He shoved himself
into her. She yelped, bit her lip. He pushed deeper.
“How romantic!” Tara gasped.
“Shut up,” master snarled. Tara tried to rise but Ms. Tuppence
kept her down with a quick, cautionary hand on her back. Master must
not be upset. He was already in a bitter mood. Why, I did not know.
Perhaps he was spoiled.
As we watched, master quickly rodded Tara, as if she were some
sheep in a barnyard that the stable boy wished to relieve himself in.
All her dainty preparations, combing her hair, fixing her lipstick,
powdering her cheeks, all was for naught, for master took her with
casual indifference.
“Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!” Tara moaned, as she was reamed by a our
implacable master. Within a minute or so he came, spurting freely, not
saving any for later for the rest of us. He withdrew after that,
leaving Tara bent over, shocked, feeling bereft. She did not even want
to stand up again, she was so humiliated. Master zipped himself up and
left the room.
“You may take the others,” he said to his friends, the men who
had watched us pee, eaten with us. “I am needed downtown, at my
business.” And with that, despite his promises of trips to Paris, or of
claiming us for his own, he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Suddenly, our male companions stirred, found us objects they no
longer had to be polite to. Our master, our new, now-departed master,
had abandoned us. I felt a shiver of fright run down my spine, and
quickly deepen in my tummy. I did not know these men and, suddenly, I
did not like them. Kimberly’s words of “playing Risk” rang within me.
I felt a sudden wetness between my legs. But it was cold, not the
shivery anticipation I felt when fear stalked me with quiet grace,
somehow assuring me that I would come through it okay. Now, a man
seized Anna, brutally, and began gnawing on her breast like it was a
piece of meat to be consumed. We were so perfect, so beautiful, and
these men seemed about to tear us apart, loosed wolves who would break
us and leave us as our newfound master just had.
Tara began to rise, but a man claimed her from behind and
thrust his newly exposed penis into her cunt. He fucked her like a
machine, soulless, working only toward his own release, caring nothing
for her. Tara cried out in anguish but Ms. Tuppence grabbed her by her
hair and held her down. A man unzipped himself, drew out his cock, and
came toward me with it swinging like a long sausage, expecting me to
make it hard for him. I was young, beautiful, yet he did not find me so
pleasing that he was automatically hard. Perhaps this was the
difference between these men and the Russians, who had taken us just
yesterday. They had screwed us lustily, bawdily, celebrating our
sexuality with us. These men seemed bent on destroying us.
In the distance I heard a hollow, repeating sound, just audible
through the walls. I cocked my head, wondering. Did some sixth sense
alert me to it? And, bright with youth, my mind suddenly clicked upon
it. “Someone’s shooting!” I yelled. I had been the only one to hear,
to notice, and I spoke without reflection, almost hoping, perhaps,
somewhere in my subconscious, for a miracle. But was it the Argentinean
government? I might get in trouble, having quit my job. Even as a
large, menacing man advanced upon me, I began wondering what I might say
if confronted by my old employers and asked why I’d left, without giving
notice. It’s odd, sometimes, how the mind works. It can speculate on
the strangest things sometimes. A picture flashed in my mind of Jesus,
hanging on the cross, in utter agony, and having to use the bathroom
too. Certainly, if it took three hours to die, you’d have to go to the
bathroom, wouldn’t you?
The man behind Tara began humping Tara. But Ms. Tuppence had
turned white. Her grip loosened on Tara’s hair. Among the men, there
was a new awareness, a sense of impending danger, perhaps even
approaching doom.
“What-who--?” Ms. Tuppence asked. Tara’s unwanted lover kept
thrusting into her, mechanically, unfeeling.
A 13-year-old boy leapt into the room. “Ms. Tuppence! We’re
under attack!” he cried. His cheeks were rosy. He seemed as excited by
the news as anything, as if some grand new adventure were opening:
Rambo Four, coming to a farmhouse near you! His news was all the
confirmation the men in the room needed. From underneath their suits
they produced, as if defending Reagan from assassination, guns of every
caliber and description. It was as if each man needed his own unique
weapon, specially selected. They left us, hurriedly and with
desperation in their eyes. Tara’s lover was yanked away by one of his
fellows and forced to follow. I slipped out behind them. I was
curious. I felt safer in the room but I could not resist finding out
what was happening.
From a window in another room, I watched fascinated as a group
of irregular soldiers advanced on the farmhouse. They were dressed in
black, ninja-like, with dark sunglasses, as if war must take second
place to fashion. They seemed to come at the farmhouse from all sides.
Bullets peppered the old masonry of the farmhouse walls. They were
thick walls, defensible, but the soldiers advancing on us seemed to have
already dispatched many of Ms. Tuppence’s armed guards. In the
distance, I thought I saw a familiar figure. He was hooded, with a deep
black cloak shrouding his body. Scarecrow-like, he seemed to stalk the
fields, moving ever closer. His irregulars advanced ahead of him. But
he was just behind, pointing, directing, yet not shouting, simply
issuing orders, mouthing them almost, as if by telepathy. His soldiers
would duck, or crouch, or dive from one point of cover to another. Yet
he moved unblinkingly forward, tall and handsome, striding like Aragon,
king-like. He presiding over the hard-fought advance like a statesman.
He urged his men forward almost as if they were children. Yet these
were deadly, fierce soldiers, mercenaries or veterans of the drug trade,
hard-bitten men who would rape and kill without a second thought. In
His presence, though, they seemed mere preschoolers, hustled forward by
One who dominated them with a power and presence I had not seen since,
well, since the Emperor in Star Wars 3, I guess, and I felt like little
R2-D2 as I watched him. Who was this dark prince, advancing through the
fields, his image shimmering in the hot sun. I gazed at him more
closely. His cloak and hood were thick. Bullets kicked up the dirt
around him as he drew closer, as the men defending the farmhouse
realized he was the leader, the one who must fall if the battle should
be turned in their favor. Yet he did not seem to mind the bullets. No,
he feared something....it was the daylight! The hot, blazing,
unrepentant sun, that was what he feared, and his cloak, flanking his
legs on this breezeless, blazing summer-hot morning, shrouded him from
it.
“Master!” the words formed in my rosebud lips. Like a little
girl caught up with excitement, I almost peed then, crouching by the
window. It was my Dracula-Druglord master, Lord Shaftsbury. He had
come to fight for us, for me! To duel on the field of battle. To
reclaim his women, his loveslaves. I watched with wondering, awestruck
eyes as he advanced. His ninjas fell, bleeding, shouting at their
mortality, as the battle thickened. Yet Lord Shaftsbury strode on, and
I thought momentarily of Adolf Hitler, marching forward in his first,
failed coup, all the others fallen, or fearful, yet he and one other
only marched forward with demonic determination. I did not think
Shaftsbury capable of Hitler’s evil, yet he had the same, demonic
quality. Even as his Nazi-like Ninjas fell around him he came on with
smooth grace. I could not see his eyes, though, or his face. The hood
kept all in darkness even under this bright noonday sun. Yet in my gut
I knew it was him. Who else would be so strange, so deadly and
erotically beautiful, a naughty girl’s wet dream in the middle of the
night?
A face appeared beside mine. It was Tara, panting, her hair
all tousled, as if she’d had to fight her way from the room, as if the
13-year-old boys, perhaps, had tried to stop her, or Ms. Tuppence. I
felt her breath on my bare shoulder. Her breasts heaved as she drew in
and exhaled her breath in quick gasps.
“Look, master!” I breathed.
“Yes,” she replied quietly. She touched a hand to my
shoulder. Her nails pressed deep as she watched him with a close
intensity, even as I did. “He is truly awesome, is he not?” she asked.
“Mmmm,” was all I could say in reply, even as her sharp nails
cut into my skin with raw excitement.
It was a long and furious battle. There were no survivors.
Except one. The house had been difficult to take, but at last I heard
him enter down below. The door opened, and shut. Somehow he knew there
was no one in the house but us. The 13-year-old boys had scattered, off
into the fields where perhaps they might return from, or perhaps not.
Ms. Tuppence, too, was gone. Perhaps she had fled with the boys at
last, realizing her husband was dead, caught in the crossfire, caught
defending her homestead. And all his guests, his guards, even many of
his male field hands, perhaps all of them, were dead. And master too,
my real master, my Vampire master, who had earned my love, truly earned
the right to take me and keep me, all his vigorous ninjas were slain.
Most had died up close against the house, trying to break in, trying to
enter, as if attempting a virgin. Only master came in at last. His
footsteps were slow and measured across the floor down below. We girls,
hearing him, not knowing quite what to expect, retreated to the room
where Tara had been fucked. The trestle stood empty now, as did the
four others that had been intended for each of us. “Insemination
stations,” I think they’d been called. And in the center of the room a
“birthing station,” where each of us, squatting, might deliver her baby
into Ms. Tuppence’s arms nine months later. Well, all that was finished
now, and I was grateful. There was only one man whose child I wished to
bear.
He entered. His presence was awesome. His cloak was torn. He
stooped a little, and I glimpsed blood within the darkness of his shroud
and gasped. With a brush of his hand he threw back his hood. I saw his
face, streaked with grime. He had blood running from the corner of his
mouth.
“Master!” I cried aloud. I ran up to him, so in awe of him. I
flung myself at him, even as the other girls did, naked and trembling
like a child welcoming home her long-lost daddy. I managed to press
myself to his chest and I tossed my arms up and looped them around his
handsome neck. He permitted me to kiss him. He lowered his lips to
mine and I kissed him more passionately than I’ve ever kissed any man in
my life, before or since. With wild abandon I pressed and ground my
pussy into the substantial bulge in his pants. Then I lifted my body
off his. Delicately I touched his abdomen. “Master, you’re bleeding!”
I whispered.
“I am not quite undead,” he breathed in reply.
“Oh, my God! We must get a doctor!” Tara exclaimed. Carefully
we laid him down on the floor. We opened his cloak, his clothes. There
were guns slung from his chest and tucked within folds of his cloak.
All sorts, a kind of arsenal like Mad Max would carry. We pulled the
guns out of his clothes and lay them in a pile on the floor with ever-so
careful hands. Tara ran to the bathroom and came back with a first aid
kit. Working frantically, her nude limbs tense, her pussy still seeping
semen from the men who had fucked her, her bosoms quivering, she broke
open the kit and drew out the articles of healing. Tape, antiseptic,
q-tips. Anna ran to the bathroom and came back with a pail of water and
a sponge. We bathed master right there, removing his clothes, nursing
him as best we could. His wounds were not as bad as I’d feared. Five
diligent girls, nude nurses, could do a bang-up job on a man, even with
just a first aid kit and a bucket of water. At last, feeling better, he
eased himself up on his elbows. He watched with amusement as each of us
in turn insisted on mounting his cock, newly wakened, and bouncing upon
it.
“Don’t. That’s the last lively organ I’ve got,” he protested
weakly. But each of us took a turn on the cock, selfishly perhaps,
getting it deep inside us and feeling his presence in our womb.
“Only you, master. Only you,” I said, looking at him with my
deep, liquid eyes.
“Hurry up. Another bounce of your ass and he’ll cum!” Rachel
urged me. Tara and Jasmine lifted me off him so she could have her
turn. And, once mounted, she bounced with abandon, ignoring all our
pleas, until she got the victory spurt.
For my sixteenth birthday I was awakened early, carefully
made-up, and presented to master with a gift-wrapped bosom and tiny
panties.
“I might tear the panties,” he said, and slipped them off. To
preserve the ribbon as a souvenir he undid it and had it put away. Then
he took me to a post and beat me all day long, letting me feel each
stroke of the strap, or the cane, each incurling bite of the whip. He
fed me at the post, and watered me there. I peed at the post, into a
little china dish. Guests came, admired my suffering. He took me in
the ass for them, twice, to show his dominance over me, and to let me
know how much he loved to have me as his slave. Frequently my hair was
combed, my makeup checked by the girls, by Tara especially, who
delighted in seeing me become a full-fledged women under master’s
hands. I cried often in the first hours. Later my tears dried and I
just endured, but there was a sweetness in the endurance. All the girls
dutifully sat around me sometimes, but at other times they partied with
the guests, ignoring me. Master came and went, letting me feel his
presence, then his absence. When I was untied at dusk my bottom glowed
with a redness of its own, red as the setting sun. Master quietly
carried me to my own bed, feeling me weeping in his arms, coughing,
trembling. My thighs were bruised, front and back, long thin bruises
from a riding crop. I could feel bitter red curlicues of fire up and
down my back. Master flopped me onto my belly in the bedroom, like a
fish, right onto a cool, sheeted bed that received me with a comfort I
relished. He watered me again, right there on the bed, pouring water
into my mouth from a little cup, letting it drool out the corner of my
mouth and stain the bed under my face. Then, as a final tribute, he
inserted his cock right into my wet mouth and fucked me a third time,
until he came. The girls gathered around my newly broken-in 16-year-old
body and immediately began applying ice and salve to my wounds.
I slept fitfully that night, tortured by the remnants of my
punishment, the stripes burning me, reminding me of master’s power over
me. At last a sense of satisfaction lulled me into dreamland. I had
pleased master. He had enjoyed me. To the full. With no restraints,
save those which kept me bound to the post. Curiously, the post had
been covered with soft cottony velvet, to protect me from its hardness,
its rough surface. I would only bear the marks that master gave me,
with his hands. No others, not even from an inanimate, lifeless post.
I was master’s alone.
When morning came, master awoke me. “I want to sleep,” I
groused. I turned away from him and yelped at the pain that shot
through my bottom and up my back, that rippled through the bruises on my
thighs.
“Get up,” he commanded. He drew me from the cool, comforting
sheets. “You are going swimming,” he said. He took me out back. He
made me dive into the pool, as perfectly as I could, and swim in it.
The water felt soft, comforting against my body. When I got out, I
trembled with a freshness of feeling I’d never experienced before. In
the cool morning, the sun just rising, master toweled me off.
“Am I yours?” I asked, sniffling at the water that seemed to be
in my nose.
“I am a man,” was his only answer. I knew it meant he would
always have other women. But now I was his too. I would share him with
a few special others. We would play together, dine out, go to films,
even travel together to faraway lands, always his faithful wenches, to
be used as he saw fit and whenever he wished. And we would be cared
for, cosseted. He had oodles of money and he delighted in buying us
precious things, that only he ever saw. Nighties, and panties, and
jeweled collars and special whips to make sure we behaved. We were
pets, like expensive Siamese cats or frisky toy poodles. Poor men in
apartments, with balding heads and fat tummies, kept a cat or two for
company. Master, wealthy and handsome, kept us.
30
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